To the editor: My mother was the consummate teacher. She was a big believer in travel to a bigger end than simply getting to a destination. The journey itself was as important as the destination. When I was nine (1962) my parents decided to pack me in the back of our Studebaker and take me along with them to Texas for my father’s company’s annual meeting. Now mind you, I saw a lot in Texas but my most vivid memory occurred at a gasoline stop in Louisiana. While the attendant filled the tank, I wandered toward the sign pointing the way to the men’s room.

What I discovered on rounding the corner was not one bathroom but rather two. One marked “Whites Only,” the other “Coloreds Only.” It is in my nature to explore so I chose to use the Colored bathroom. The door was off its hinge at the bottom. The toilets were clogged, and toilet paper nearly gone. The wind had blown leaves into the room, and as I entered, a mouse quickly exited. On my way back to the car, I ventured into the Whites only side to find a clean, well-supplied toilet.

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